


Whiskey and Lavender

by nimiumcaelo



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: (it's bones so there's a lot), Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alien Cultural Differences, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, BAMF James T. Kirk, Betaed, Cussing, Drunken Kissing, Drunkenness, Father-Daughter Relationship, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Meditation, Mention of Jocelyn - Freeform, Mind Meld, Near Death Experiences, POV Leonard "Bones" McCoy, Protective Spock (Star Trek), Sad Leonard "Bones" McCoy, Set in 2267, Slow Burn, Volcanoes, Vomiting, Vulcan Fetishists, Vulcan Kisses, Vulcan Mind Melds, Weed Parallels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-19
Updated: 2020-04-19
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:34:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 17,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23726137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nimiumcaelo/pseuds/nimiumcaelo
Summary: Leonard H. McCoy has issues. Who doesn't? His daughter lives light-years away, his best friend nearly dies, and he's got a bit of a crush.Oh yeah, and that crush happens to hate him. (Or so he thinks.)---McCoy struggles with alcoholism, self-doubt, and his feelings for Spock.
Relationships: James T. Kirk & Leonard "Bones" McCoy, Leonard "Bones" McCoy/Spock
Comments: 12
Kudos: 120
Collections: AUTHOR'S FAVORITES





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [musobleu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/musobleu/gifts).



Leonard McCoy looked up at the alien sky above him, and wondered at it. The newness of each planet they visited was never lost on him. It was a different sort of smallness, he believed, to actually set foot on something so much bigger than you and so indifferent to your existence. 

Jim was with him, setting up beacons as they walked so they wouldn’t lose their place. So far as they had determined with their scanners, this planet was uninhabited, and they were mapping it for possible construction or agriculture. 

The gravity on this planet was about 78% of Earth’s, meaning McCoy’s feet barely left any footprint in the bluish dust covering the flat rocks they were walking on. Massive trees jutted up to their right and left, whitish trunks with branches only starting about twenty feet above McCoy’s head. Their roots disappeared totally beneath the stiff, rocky ground and McCoy faintly wondered how anyone could ever dig into it without breaking their shovel, or their back.

Jim looked entirely too at-home here, but McCoy supposed that was something they taught you in Captain’s training. 

A rustling sounded off to the right. The two of them stopped dead. 

“Did you hear—?” Kirk whispered.

McCoy gestured with his thumb. “Two o’clock.”

He and Kirk silently withdrew their phasers. As they pushed into the deep blue brush that sprung up beneath the forest, McCoy’s thumb flicked the dial on his phaser to ‘STUN.’ 

Kirk took the left side and McCoy the right. They carefully stepped forward into the glen, crouching and attempting to surround whatever creature might be within. McCoy felt his heartbeat quickening, the adrenaline coursing through his veins sharpening his wits and his eyesight. 

Grayish sunlight broke through the forest ceiling and spilled into the glen, patchy in a familiar way. A thin stream meandered off to the West. 

Nothing was there. McCoy exhaled the breath he had been holding. 

“Must have been the wind,” he murmured as Kirk stepped out of the brush. “I can’t see any evidence of a creature—“ He broke off as Kirk suddenly fell underground.

“Jim!” He called, making his way over to the sinkhole, careful not to fall himself. “Are you alright?”

He heard no response.

“Damnit, Jim,” he huffed, getting onto his stomach and scooting forward to peer into the hole. He grabbed his communicator and turned it on—static. _The trees must be giving off some sort of magnetic signal_ , he figured. He could just make out the glint of the Starfleet insignia on Kirk’s shirt. He must have been a quarter mile down.

The shaft was narrow and jagged, and widened at the end. It was also glowing… and warm…

A volcano!

“Jim, you’ve _got_ to get out of there!” McCoy shouted. “God _damnit_ , won’t anyone pick up the comms!”

Someone on the Enterprise _had_ to have noticed they stopped their routine check-in calls, right?

He cast his eyes around for anything long enough to stick down there. There was a fallen branch! He tried hauling it over, but it appeared to be cemented into the ground, molding with the stone. 

“Jim, can you hear me?” He called down, trying to ascertain whether Kirk was still conscious. “Jim, can you climb out?”

_Fuck._

There was nothing else he could do.

He had to go down there.

Securing his communicator and phaser to his belt, he steeled himself for the descent. The walls of the shaft were uneven with many hand-holds, thank Jesus. McCoy made his way with a little less caution than he probably should have used, hurrying for the sake of his Captain and friend.

The ledge where Jim had fallen was quite a bit nearer the surface than McCoy had been able to make out. McCoy clambered down beside Jim, who was lying crumpled on the rock with a light trickle of blood coming from his temple and shoulder. McCoy tried to scan him, but—

“ _Damn_ it!”

—the tricorder wasn’t working either. _Must be those damned trees._

The top of the shaft was just above the reach of his arms. Maybe he could lift Jim up…?

He heaved Kirk into his arms, grabbing below the buttocks, and shoved the man upwards. Kirk’s arms flailed limply and he swayed as McCoy pushed him up. It took McCoy a couple tries, but he managed to get Kirk halfway on the surface, balancing.

Now, if only he could get out himself…

The air beneath the surface was acrid and stung McCoy’s eyes. He coughed into his arm. Something was going on. He stepped to the edge of the rock, about to lift himself onto the next foothold, when the edge crumbled and he fell.

He landed flat on his ass and could feel his tailbone crack. _At least it wasn’t my head_ , he figured.

Ignoring the really pretty terrible pain at the base of his spine, McCoy stood up shakily and tried to get his bearings. Was it just him or was it getting warmer? The initial spike of adrenaline was fading fast and McCoy’s limbs were going numb with dread. Above him, he could see Kirk’s legs dangling precariously. 

Wait.

Was that just his imagination?

Blinking furiously, McCoy stared up at his friend.

Oh.

Oh, no.

Kirk was sliding!

There was no way McCoy could get up there in time. Not only were the walls smoother down this low, but the air was becoming more foul by the second. 

McCoy’s hands scrabbled at the warm stone above him. If he could just get a little higher…!

Kirk rapidly fell. Without thinking, McCoy dove to block his landing. The crunch of Kirk’s landing was severe enough McCoy was concerned about the Captain’s bones. There was no time to fiddle any more with the tricorder, though—the volcano was heating up!

A low rumbling started deep beneath them. McCoy covered his nose and mouth with the front of his uniform and tugged Kirk’s up to do the same. His eyes were watering and everything looked blurry. McCoy, choking on the air, felt his knees buckle and he dropped to the ground, trying to cover Kirk’s injured body with his own. McCoy’s hands scrabbled at the dust on the walls. With an overwhelming dread, he realized they were probably going to die down here.

His head pounded. The rumbling was getting closer.

All at once, the world went white. He couldn’t breathe. Everything burnt his skin fiercely. All around them was this hissing, powerful white steam, shooting up from beneath. This was it: the end. His vision went blurry as his chest throbbed for air. 

Then, just as quickly as it had started, it stopped.

He saw the blur of the transporter beam, then felt the cool metal beneath his hands. 

He was safe.

He was home.

. ⋅ ˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ .

McCoy vaguely remembered being dragged to sickbay. He could kind of recall the beeps of the machines and the warmth of Nurse Chapel’s hand as it squeezed his own. Mostly, though, it was all a dark haze.

He woke up the next morning with a headache and dry mouth to rival the worst hangover of his life. His throat, too, was scalded and sore. There was a glass of water by his bedside and he chugged it, his cracked lips rejoicing at the moisture. When Chapel came by, he waved her over, not trusting himself to speak. She was good though—real good—and knew what he needed without him having to ask.

“Cracked tailbone, minor burns to the skin, and some scrapes and bruises. You slept for about nine hours. Before that, you came in and out of consciousness. We think you and the Captain were mildly poisoned by the volcanic gas—nasty stuff. We only got you out of there as late as we did because of it, though, so I suppose you should be grateful. I’m sure you noticed, but the communicators didn’t reach us because of the magnetic trees. The signal was thrown off. It was only when the ones closest to the volcano were incinerated that Mr. Spock could pinpoint your location.”

“It was such a small volcano, too,” Chapel continued, while scanning McCoy once more with her tricorder, “you would think it would be weaker than all that. Such a strange planet, though. Perhaps that’s why it was uninhabited. Can you imagine—a secret volcano? On Earth, they’re all quite obvious. Maybe this one was new.”

McCoy licked his dry lips and cast his eyes about. Where was Jim?

“Oh,” Chapel explained, once she noticed his gaze, “the Captain’s fine. He’s only on the other side of the ‘Bay. He fractured part of his spine but we were able to fix that quite soon. It wasn’t complicated—just a hairline. He might be annoyed when he wakes up, though. He scraped a big chunk out of his scalp and we had to shave his head to heal it properly. Don’t want to mess up the face, you know.”

McCoy smiled weakly. Jim would most certainly rue the loss of his golden curls. He’d get over it, though. He always does.

Chapel’s words started to fade. Oh, Lord. They nearly died. The signal must have been so weak. If Spock had simply blinked—!

McCoy felt his breath get shallow. The machine behind him started to beep more quickly.

“Doctor,” Nurse Chapel soothed, “you seem to be a little overwhelmed at it all. Perfectly understandable. I’m going to let you sleep it off.”

_No! Where’s Jim? I’ve gotta—gotta get us…_

_out…_

Once again, everything went black.

. ⋅ ˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ .

For several days, McCoy would wake up, be fine for a few minutes, a few hours. Then, something would hit him, and he would panic. He wouldn’t be able to breathe. His chest would be pounding. He kept seeing images of himself and Kirk burning alive. Finally, sick of the haze the tranquilizers gave him, McCoy put his foot down and had Chapel release him. 

He went straight to his quarters and locked the door.

What a week this had been… 

He tried to lie down on his bed, but his heart was racing too hard for sleep. His mouth was dry again. Intending to get a glass of water, he went to the replicator. His hands were shaking fiercely by this point and they fumbled as he punched in the code. 

He blamed it on the tremors that the machine spit out a bottle of whiskey and a glass.

_It’s only one drink. It’s just for the tremors. He’s panicking, damnit, let a man relax._

McCoy settles back into his bed and pours himself a glass. It stings a little worse on his still-raw throat. Jim is fine, he repeats to himself, taking another swallow. He’s off that hell-hole planet. He pours himself another glass, and repeats these phrases like mantras. It’s all he has to hold onto before he gets swallowed, yet again, by his own mind. 

Jim is fine. We are both safe.

Jim is fine. We are both safe.

Jim is fine. We are both safe.

Soon, the bottle is half gone.

Soon, the bottle is three-quarters gone.

Soon, he’s asleep.


	2. Chapter 2

In a few weeks’ time, the good Doctor is on another mission; this time, it’s diplomatic. The Federation is interested in good relations with the Twon people, a ‘sophisticated, conservative civilization that values sobriety and community involvement,’ as the refresher documents put it. Charming.

He doesn’t really have to do much besides stand around and look put-together. Jim does all the sweet-talking and Spock handles the finer details. The only catch is that little word the refreshers snuck in there: _sobriety_. They sure weren’t kidding about that one. The Twons _do_ allow alcohol, but only ever during special occasions; and, even then, doctors, mothers, and other valued workers are never allowed to indulge. When Jim—whose hair was still a little closer-cropped than the image-conscious Captain cared for—had told McCoy, he had smiled teasingly at his friend and colleague.

“I’m sure you’ll handle it just fine, Bones,” Jim grinned. “Simply pretend you’ve only ever had milk and the finest mountain water.”

“Like _hell_ I have,” McCoy laughed.

Well, he wasn’t laughing now.

The entire mission was set to be a week in length, and McCoy had to be there for all of it. Normally, he roomed with Jim for these sorts of things, but the Captain had been put in an entirely different wing of the embassy since he was a higher rank. Instead, he was put up with Spock, which, in all honesty, he didn’t really mind at all. Spock was very contained and didn’t have any loud or smelly or really quite obnoxious habits ( _cough_ Jim _cough_ ). Plus, unlike Sulu, he didn’t feel the need to bring about twenty different houseplants with him wherever he went. McCoy’s allergies were very grateful for that last one. If he were a different man, he might have minded Spock’s meditations and incense. As it was, though, he simply found them relaxing, and a little—dare he say it—endearing. It made Spock _real_ , in a way—made him _human_ (though McCoy would never tell him to his face).

No, his rooming situation was not the problem. If anything, it was quite nice. The problem came when the entire room of diplomats and professionals and locals and Federation officials were socializing and sipping their Twonian champagne and McCoy had to stand beside the only other “valued worker,” a thirty-something Twon woman with milky pink eyes and a friendly disposition, and drink sparkling water.

They kept up friendly conversation for a time, talking about the food, the atmosphere, and the latest book out on datapad. Frankly, it was boring. McCoy was cropping his replies, trying to end the interaction and get back to his room, where he could at least be miserable alone. Thankfully, the Twon woman seemed to notice his discomfort and excused herself to go speak with her husband, a top-ranking Twon diplomat.

McCoy took the opportunity and headed straight for the door. 

“Leaving so soon, Doctor?”

McCoy sighed. “What concern is it of yours, Mr. Spock? I dare say I’ve done all I can or want to do here. ‘Sides, I’ve got a massive headache and your voice is not helping.”

“My apologies, Doctor. One would think a medical man such as yourself would be better equipped to handle these minor inconveniences.”

They moved into the anteroom, where it was a little quieter.

“Are you calling me a bad doctor on account of a little headache, Mr. Spock? Surely that would make you a poor commander given you are not always top of command.”

Spock’s dark eyes twinkled in the lowlight. “That is simply my rank, not my office, Doctor. Perhaps that would escape you, though, since you are so fond of conflating things.”

“I’ll conflate your ass,” McCoy grinned into his water.

Spock had the ghost of a smile on his face. “I cannot debate that.”

“Damn right you can’t.” The Doctor huffed. “I’ll tell you what, though,” he lowered his voice, “this party _sucks ass_.”

“Indeed?”

“In-fucking-deed. Who are they to say I can’t have a drink, huh? Don’t they know what buckets of shit I have to put up with, and every doctor has to put with, for that matter? Damn. What am I, little Tom Sawyer painting his fucking fence?”

“Your power of metaphor, as always, escapes me, Doctor.”

“I just mean—man of my age should be allowed to make his own decisions. And if he wants to have a glass of whiskey, he should damn well be allowed to.”

“The Twon value sobriety and strength of character,” Spock recited blandly.

“I know that, you stiff-necked Vulcan. But look at me! My hands are shaking. Can’t I just have _one—_ to relax? I’m sure you wouldn’t understand,” he continued, after seeing Spock give him a censorious glance, “but we _humans_ tend to _enjoy_ relaxation. It makes life bearable, especially when we have to deal with di— _people_ like you and the Twon.”

Finished with his whispered debate, McCoy leaned against the wall and scowled. His hands really were shaking and he was getting more and more frustrated with Spock, who seemed to have no sympathy for him. Fucking Vulcan. He was surprised, then, when Spock leaned carefully beside him.

“While I cannot fully understand your specific frustrations,” he said quietly, “I do understand the difficulties of interacting with alien cultures and being forced to conform to beliefs and practices you have no experience with, and that occasionally cause physical discomfort.”

McCoy looked at him. “Really.”

“Yes.”

“Okay.”

McCoy had no interest in continuing this dry conversation if it wasn’t going anywhere. He straightened up and began walking away. But _damnit_ , if Spock wasn’t following him!

“Do you have a problem, Mr. Spock?”

“Indeed not.”

“Then can you explain to me why you are following me around?”

“We room together, Doctor.”

McCoy pinched the bridge of his nose. “I know that, you idiot. But you seemed to be rather engaged with the political highbrows in there. I thought you’d stay—for Jim.”

“I am … finished with my discussions,” Spock replied mysteriously.

“Fine. Well, don’t expect me to be a good conversational partner. Soon’s’I’m gettin’ in there I’m heading straight for bed.”

They reached their room and McCoy keyed in the code.

“Would you care to revise that statement, Doctor?” Spock asked once they had gotten inside and the door had shut and locked behind them. He held up a bottle of Twonian spirits.

McCoy’s face lit up. “Oh, you son of a—“

Spock raised his eyebrow.

“—wonderful woman,” McCoy corrected. “I could damn well kiss you, Mr. Spock.”

“That is quite unnecessary, Doctor. You may indulge yourself. I shall complete my meditations and retire.”

“Nonsense!” McCoy grabbed Spock’s arm and tugged him over to the sofa. “You’re the one who got it, you’re having some!”

“Really, Doctor, I must—“ Spock cut himself off as he was pushed onto the couch. “Alcohol has no effect on Vulcans.”

“I don’t give a shi—it,” McCoy drawled as he headed to the kitchenette to grab glasses. “You’re half human.”

“Now,” he continued, having settled himself beside Spock and set the glasses on the table, “it’s time to celebrate.”

He poured two tall glasses, handing one to Spock and taking the other for himself.

“Cheers.”

McCoy downed his glass in one swallow. _Damn_ , he needed this.

Pouring himself another glass, he settled more comfortably into the sofa, sprawling his legs out. He casually noted his knee bumping against Spock’s leg. Spock himself was sipping cautiously at his drink. It did not appear he enjoyed it much. McCoy didn’t really care.

He had a fleeting worry about some security camera catching him drinking, but it was gone within a moment. Life was to be lived in the present, and what a _wonderful_ present this was. True, it could be better. He could be sitting next to some buxom blonde rather than a skinny, somewhat-socially-inept Vulcan—but nothing’s perfect. If he squinted his eyes, they looked the same, anyway.

Speaking of which…

“I don’t suppose you have any tits up that shirt, huh?” 

Spock was unfazed. “You know that I do not.”

Somehow, his lack of a blush made things worse. If he had jumped at the prod, McCoy might have been spurred on to more, and they may have gotten somewhere tonight(—oh, not like that! Shut up.) As it was, he chased the sting of embarrassment with some more whiskey.

“Fucking Vulcan,” he muttered.

He was almost certain Spock heard him, but he didn’t care. Spock was an idiot, and a callous one, at that. He had never cared about McCoy and he never would. He didn’t care about _anyone_ , or any _thing_ that wasn’t glowing on his science station’s screen.

He ignored Spock, who was staring faintly at the floor. Silence settled over the room like a fine dust. McCoy took to his drink, and Spock just sat there, like a miserable schoolboy made to spend time with his Great Aunt Gertrude.

Shit, did that make McCoy …? He cackled at the thought.

Spock glanced up, startled.

“Oh,” McCoy gasped, still caught in his laughter. “Sorry, sorry, ’s’nothin’. Just a—a joke I, uh.. forgot.”

Spock lowered his eyes once more, and took a sip from his drink.

“No need to grimace like that, son. It’s not _that_ awful.”

Spock considered the glass in his hand. “I apologize, I did not mean to offend. I am not accustomed to such beverages.”

“If you swallow it quicker it tastes better,” McCoy offered.

Spock steeled himself, then tossed it back, coughing as he set it back down on the table.

“I do not believe that was effective,” he choked out. His cheeks were a great deal more green than they had been earlier.

McCoy instinctively reached to pat Spock’s back. 

“You alright, there, pal?” He laughed. “You seem a little green ‘round the gills.”

Spock cast him a long-suffering grimace. 

“Sorry, sorry,” McCoy chuckled. “Couldn’t help myself.”

He watched Spock out of the edge of his eye for a while. The man was simply screaming discomfort. He had half a mind to ask him what was wrong. Spock was usually a little on-edge and uncomfortable, but something about this was different. He seemed to be waiting for something, beating around the bush. He probably just wanted McCoy to leave, the damned Vulcan. Lord knew why. He sure as hell wasn’t like Jim, who only wanted McCoy out when he was being courteous enough to warn him before having loud, obnoxious relations with some alien woman. The thought of Spock having loud, obnoxious relations of his own was laughable. The only time McCoy had ever seen Spock at all interested in women was during his Pon Farr episode. Besides that, it was always one-sided and usually involved a certain blonde nurse. 

McCoy was roused from his thoughts suddenly when Spock cleared his throat.

“Doctor,” he said quietly.

_Here it comes_.

“I think it would be best for you to put the beverage aside.”

_What?_

“Excuse me?”

First off, what right did Spock have to be telling McCoy, a _grown man_ , what he should and shouldn’t be drinking? Surely McCoy knew well enough when to stop.

Secondly, the man was a doctor. He knew his limits. So what if he wanted a little extra after a hard day? He’s allowed to kick back, after all.

“I do not believe your continued consumption would be beneficial to either of our psyches during the remainder of this trip,” Spock continued, “so I ask that you desist.”

McCoy took a hard look at the Vulcan beside him. What right did he have to look so sad? It wasn’t McCoy’s fault alcohol didn’t work on green blood.

“Damn, man, just grab some chocolate if you’re so upset about it. Nobody said you couldn’t indulge.” He raised the glass to his lips, but was shocked when Spock placed his hand on McCoy’s shoulder.

The Vulcan’s brown eyes seemed to bore a hole through McCoy’s skull. 

“Doctor… I am in earnest.”

McCoy stood up, brushing Spock’s hand off. He was really pissed off now.

“Who do you think you are, Spock? Hm? Who gave you the _right_ to tell me what to do? I know you don’t like me and I don’t care, but could you _please_ leave me alone for just one God-damn evening and let me enjoy myself? I don’t know where you get these fuckin’ ideas of yours, but we _humans_ tend to leave other people be! Now, are you gonna stop this shit or am I gonna have to ask you to leave?”

As Spock rose, the soft yellow lighting in the room caught his face and exacerbated the Vulcan tint of his skin. “I do not believe my opinions, which are based on supported fact, would be classified as excrement by anyone but you. I understand that you are uncomfortable, Doctor, but I simply cannot stand by and watch a colleague and friend abuse themselves at the risk of their position and sanity.”

McCoy scoffed. “What the fuck are you talking about, you pointed-eared _Vulcan_?”

Spock’s jaw hardened at the last word, spat with McCoy’s signature venom.

“Doctor, are you even aware of how much you have been consuming? The bottle is finished and an hour has not even passed. I admit it was my own mistake in offering you the beverage, though I was not aware of your disease.”

“My God, man, the shit’s weaker than a glass of orange juice! These Twonian spirits have just enough kick to make a fly dizzy! I don’t have any damned disease, Spock! Why the fuck do you care, anyway?”

“You are incorrect in your analysis. I selected a bottle that had an equivalent alcohol content to standard Terran wines.”

“So what? You think I don’t know what I’m drinking? Look at me, man, do I look over-intoxicated to you? Look at my eyes, huh? Look at my hands!”

“The fact you can hold your drink is irrelevant, Doctor.”

McCoy seethed. He was embarrassed, sure, his stomach stung with it; who wouldn’t be embarrassed after their annoying-ass colleague called them out on drinking too much?

“Get the fuck out,” he spat.

Spock stared at him, hard. “No.”

McCoy swung a mean right-hook, but Spock caught it before it hit its target. Never was his Vulcan strength more infuriating than when it was used to restrain McCoy’s anger. 

Not enough of an idiot to try and hit him again, McCoy scowled fiercely.

“Get off of me.”

“Not until I am assured you pose no further danger to yourself.”

“Fine,” McCoy huffed, arm going limp, “you win. Now, will you _please_ leave me alone? I doubt your _presence_ is very ‘beneficial to my psyche’ right now.”

Spock released McCoy’s hand and stepped back. “I will leave you be.”

_Fuckin’ finally_ , McCoy thought. Damn, he’d thought rooming with Spock would be all peace and meditation and aligning your _katra_ ’s and shit, not so fuckin’ confrontational.

McCoy rolled his eyes. “Spock, it’s empty, give it a rest.”

Spock said nothing as he continued to empty the last drops of the spirits down the drain. 

McCoy huffed and sat down on his bed. He sure as hell wasn’t leaving the room smelling like alcohol—he’d ruin the entire mission. If Spock was so up-in-arms about the whole situation, _he_ could leave, but nothing was getting McCoy out of that bed until it was way past time to wake up the next morning.

Rather than leave, however, Spock simply lit his meditation candle and knelt on the edge of his bed, hands steepled. McCoy wondered absently if he’d forgotten to bring his meditation pillow.

The incense was strong, but not overly perfumed, and came in waves that lulled McCoy to the edge of consciousness. Though it was certainly an exotic scent, something about it was familiar. It recalled to McCoy the experience of wandering through a spice shop that was filled with all familiar spices, yet the combination of them produced a new and somehow subtler scent that permeated the atmosphere and clung to one’s clothing for hours after leaving.

It was rare that McCoy had had the opportunity to observe Spock meditating. It was a rather private thing, naturally, and Spock tended to only do it alone. Whenever they chanced to share a room, however, he was allowed to experience it, even only as a bystander. He would be lying if he said he didn’t look forward to it. Not only was it peaceful, but it was personal, as well. McCoy was loath to admit it, but underneath his bitching and moaning, he was interested by Spock and wanted to know him better. That was probably why he reacted so strongly to Spock’s disapproval. It stung to know that someone he really did admire so highly could look down on him like that. 

McCoy lay on his side, watching Spock for an unknown period of time. To truly appreciate the incense, McCoy believed, one had to be biologically Vulcan. The aroma was crafted particularly for the Vulcan nose and olfactory receptors. The Doctor had always meant to ask Spock for his opinion on it, to really understand the effect. Sure, it made McCoy higher than a kite, but it did something for Spock that was near magical. Simply watching him sit there, all the tension from the day melting from his shoulders and forehead, was enough to drive a man mad with jealousy. Why hadn’t someone come up with a human version of that? The closest you could find was probably a bottle of whiskey and some lavender.

McCoy’s heart still clenched at the thought that Spock thought so poorly of him for drinking. Did he really have any other choice? Spock could come back to his room every evening, light a candle, and watch all his cares drift away. Not everyone was privileged enough to be able to do that.

It was getting late, though, and the combination of Spock’s candle and the Twonian spirits were catching up to him. He set aside his jealousy and embarrassment for the morning, and drifted soundly to sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

The mission ended successfully and Kirk was thrilled. He got calls from several Ambassadors thanking him for his work—

“As if _you_ were the one with the hard job,” McCoy teased.

Kirk had thrown a celebratory party on the _Enterprise_ for those who had been involved in the mission to thank them for their service. McCoy was currently posted up at a table near the back with Kirk, who was still near-giddy with relief.

The Captain laughed. “Well, you’ve got plenty of booze to enjoy tonight, Bones. I made sure they had the whiskey you like.”

“You damn near got every kind of drink in this quadrant!” McCoy laughed. “What’s that shitty chocolate stuff, anyway? Vulcan wine?”

“Yeah, when I was ordering the rest of it I saw it on the menu and I thought I might as well try it. It’s not actually made by Vulcans,” Kirk explained, “ _God_ no. It’s made by some Berellian winery that specializes in alien blends. I guess someone wanted to see what it would be like to see a drunk Vulcan.”

McCoy leaned back in his chair. “Where is Spock, anyway? I haven’t seen him off the bridge since the mission.”

Kirk sighed. “Oh, he’s upset about something, probably. He kept coming to my quarters to tell me inane details about the Twonian ambassador’s third cousin or something. I think he’s just lonely, honestly, and bored.”

“Why doesn’t he just call his mother?”

“Maybe he has, I don’t know. I mean, why wonder, anyway? He’s Spock. He does that. It’ll probably take a while for him to get out of this funk, but honestly? I’m not worried. He can work through it. Odds are,” Kirk murmured, sly smile twisting his cheeks, “he met some Twonian woman down there who was hot stuff and he’s in the dumps ‘cause he can’t see her again.”

McCoy choked on his drink. “Serious?” His stomach did an unpleasant flip at the thought.

“Ha! I wish. Would do him good to have a silly interest in something for once. Got a stick up his ass the size of Bajor.”

“Speak of the devil,” McCoy muttered.

Spock emerged from behind a crowd of security officers, stiff and uncomfortable as he always was at parties. _Lord knows why he even comes_.

“Spock!” Kirk greeted as the Commander sat down. “How are you? We were just talking about you.”

Spock seemed unfazed. “I believe Nurse Chapel and Ensign Jones are engaged in a rather heated embrace in the Jefferies’ Tube at the end of the deck. As I passed the area, I recognized both of their voices and a rather unpleasant smell.”

“You could smell them?” Kirk’s face was twisted in disgust.

“The Vulcan olfactory system is more sensitive than the human,” Spock said blandly.

McCoy tossed back the rest of his drink. “Well, as long as she shows up for work the next morning, I don’t give a shit what she does. I’m gonna grab another drink. You want another, Jim?”

“I’m still nursing this one, Bones, but thanks.”

McCoy refilled his drink and opted to grab a glass of the Vulcan wine, also.

“Here,” he said, sliding the drink under Spock’s nose, “you’ll like this.”

Spock pressed his lips together. “I do not.”

“You haven’t even tried it, though,” argued Kirk. “It might be wonderful.”

“I have had it before, Captain—“

“ _Jim_ , Spock, we’re off duty.”

“—Jim, and I do not like it.”

“You mean you’ve had Vulcan wine before?”

“Unintentionally, yes. I was deceived into consuming a large quantity of it while I was at the Academy. No doubt it was meant in jest, but the effects were rather unpleasant.”

“Too much too fast? Nasty hangover?” Kirk asked sympathetically, relaxing back into his chair.

Spock folded his hands on the table. “It is not truly a wine. If the concentration of inebriating material could be compared to standard alcohols, it would be closer to one of Mr. Chekov’s vodkas.”

McCoy whistled. “You must’ve been pretty well oiled,” he teased. “I’d kill to see you like that again.”

“And so betray your medical oath to do no harm? Unsurprising from a witch doctor such as yourself.” 

Though his tone was still neutral, the usual glitter of wit in Spock’s eye was nowhere to be found.McCoy didn’t know whether to be genuinely offended or not.

“Boys, boys,” Kirk chuckled, “this is a party, let’s enjoy it. No pressure to try the drinks, Spock, but I hope you don’t mind if we indulge. I think I’ll take that refill now, Bones. Do you two want any appetizers?”

Kirk headed off to grab more refreshments. Spock’s eyes trailed him for a moment, then dipped to stare at his thumbs.

The hum of the party suddenly became very quiet, and even though they were surrounded by people, McCoy couldn’t shake the ominous feeling of being alone with Spock for the first time since their big stink on the away mission. It’s not that he was ashamed of his behavior, it was more that he didn’t really know where he stood with Spock anymore. Not in the mood for confrontation, he stretched his legs out and—

—accidentally kicked Spock.

“Oh, Lord, sorry,” he mumbled.

“It is of no consequence,” Spock said, voice soft beneath the cheers of a group of friends across the room.

Rather than the expected annoyance or disdain, McCoy was encouraged to discover a hint of warmth in Spock’s deep brown eyes. Perhaps Spock wasn’t as pissed at him as he’d thought.

“Hey, uh,” McCoy began awkwardly, “I wanted to ask you something, by the way.”

Spock subtly squared his shoulders and put on his most Commander-esque face, in McCoy’s opinion. “On what subject?”

“That meditation incense you use. What does it smell like?”

“You have smelled it before, Doctor. It is not a subtle aroma.”

“Well, yes, but, no. See, I don’t have the receptors for it.”

Spock’s eyes narrowed minutely. “Have you had your olfactory receptors removed?”

“No! No, I just—they’re human. It’s a Vulcan candle.”

Spock stared at him for at least four seconds before replying, “Doctor, the candle is not so subtle that a human nose cannot discern its perfume. Are you having difficulty detecting scents?”

“I can _smell_ the damn thing, Spock, but it doesn’t do that—have such a…” He grasped for words. 

“An effect?” Spock supplied.

“An _effect_ , yeah. It doesn't have as much of an effect on me as it does on you, or at least what I’ve seen. What’s it _like_ , that stuff?” McCoy’s eyes glittered with interest. “I’m gettin’ greener than you just thinking about it.”

“Doubtful,” Spock dismissed quickly. “Though, Doctor, I believe you are under a misapprehension. It is not the meditation candle that provides calming benefits: it is the meditation itself.”

“Damn.”

“Doctor?”

McCoy sighed and gazed out at the crowd. “Well, I guess that’s it, then.”

“I am unsure what you mean.”

“No hope, Spock,” McCoy said, sipping his drink. _I guess it really is just whiskey and lavender_.

“No hope for what?” Kirk asked, sitting back down with a plate of various finger-foods.

“Nothing, nothing. Spock here was just telling me all about the bedtime stories his mommy used to read to him.”

McCoy fiercely ignored the glare Spock shot at his temple. 

. ⋅ ˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ .

Unsurprisingly, Kirk left several hours before the party was over with one of the guest musicians in tow.

Surprisingly, Spock lingered with McCoy. 

They didn’t speak much. For the greater part of the evening, McCoy helped himself to the drinks and desserts table while Spock sat and listened to the music. McCoy sure wan’t as young as he used to be, and his hearing was a little patchy sometimes, but he’d swear on his Momma’s grave that he heard Spock humming along.

McCoy could tell Spock disapproved of how much he was drinking. But again—he knows his limits. McCoy’s an adult, and an officer, too. He wouldn’t get sloshed at a ship party. Spock probably doesn’t even know what’s considered normal for humans. Vulcans sure as hell don’t ever drink.

Thankfully, though, McCoy avoided confronting him by sucking on some mini fruit tart and absentmindedly watching the way the lights in the room reflected off of the polished tables, crew-members’ jewelry, and Spock’s hair.

Eventually, he got sick of sitting around. Despite the fact that Spock had been turned away from him the entire time, McCoy couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched.

“I’m heading back. G’night.”

Spock stood. “I will accompany you.”

“I don’t need a babysitter, Spock,” McCoy groused. Leave it to Spock to sit and ignore McCoy all evening but follow him around like a puppy as soon as he wants to leave.

Spock ignored his protests and they walked together in silence towards the turbolifts. 

As they passed the Jefferies’ tube at the end of the deck, McCoy asked, “Is that the one?”

“It is.”

The disgust in Spock’s tone caused McCoy to chuckle. They entered the turbolift and headed towards their cabins. Was it McCoy’s imagination or was Spock standing a little closer than usual?

It took him until he was punching in the code for his door to realize Spock had been holding him by the elbow the entire time they’d been walking. When he noticed, he startled and wrenched his elbow out of Spock’s grasp.

“What are you trying to pull?” McCoy hissed. “Leave me alone, will you? I don’t need you harping on me like my mother.”

They were the same height, yet Spock still appeared to look down on him. 

“Doctor, you were having difficulty standing and walking properly. It was only logical to assist you back to your cabin.”

“I can stand fine, what the fuck are you talking about?” He shot his arms out in display, and promptly reeled. _Had he really not noticed?_

Spock caught him by the arm before he could fall against the door. “Doctor, you are not well.”

“Yeah, well, what are you gonna do about it?” McCoy’s tone was bitter, yet defeated. “I’m at my cabin. You can go.”

_What are you so worried about me for, anyway? You ignored me all evening,_ he wanted to say.

Spock hesitated a moment, then left.

McCoy skipped brushing his teeth to avoid bumping into Spock in their shared bathroom. As he lay in bed, still mildly fuming, he caught a whiff of Spock’s meditation candle seeping through the wall. His jaw clenched. _Fucking arrogant bastard_.

Unable to help himself, McCoy got up and was about to bang on Spock’s side of the bathroom door, when it swung open, unlocked. 

Staggering from the unused force of the blow, McCoy nearly tripped over his feet.

The instant the door opened, he was overcome with the same drowsiness that he’d felt on the away mission. Every muscle in his body seemed to loosen, as if he’d soaked in hemp oil for an hour. 

It hit him like a wall.

Spock was, at this point, deep in meditation. 

The only light came from his candle, which had, at this point, saturated the room with its exotic and heady aroma. 

With the flickering glow dancing on his features, Spock resembled an ancient carving of some foreign god. 

McCoy’s purpose for entering the room seemed forgotten. 

His fists unclenched. 

Slowly, he drifted to the floor, knees weak. 

It took some time for McCoy to realize that he was not, in fact, dreaming. Distantly, he realized it was rude of him to intrude. He recalled his reason for entering, but it seemed strangely devoid of meaning. 

Why had he been so angry? 

What was the purpose? 

The only emotion he felt right now was simple happiness. It made him giddy, like the first time he’d smoked pot in high school.

On his hands and knees, McCoy crawled over to sit directly in front of Spock. 

It seemed the only logical thing to do was to imitate him. Spurred on by the haziness the candle had created in his mind, McCoy knelt and steepled his hands in a double ta’al. 

Spock hadn’t moved once since McCoy bumbled into his quarters. That felt wrong. 

Wasn’t McCoy here to talk to Spock? 

Why _had_ he come here, anyway?

He needed to get Spock’s attention, somehow. 

Faintly giggling to himself, McCoy tilted forward and placed his right hand in a sloppy imitation of a mind meld.

Spock’s eyes shot open and his hand came up to grip McCoy’s wrist like a vice. Under normal conditions, McCoy would probably be frightened at this point. As it was, he was much too intoxicated by the swirling, dizzying combination of booze and Vulcan incense to have much common sense.

Spock’s eyes widened minutely as McCoy hazily leaned forward. 

“Spock, you’re made of stone,” McCoy murmured.

He could see the rich, deep color of Spock’s eyes better in the low light, somehow. 

“Doctor,” Spock whispered, voice hoarse. “What are you…”

Somewhat unintentionally, McCoy fell the last few inches forward and kissed Spock. 

He was half-startled when he realized he’d done it, but then figured, _Oh, what the hell._

Spock’s skin was cool to the touch. 

He held extremely still as McCoy nuzzled his face. 

After about a minute, he loosed his grip on McCoy’s wrist and instead caught McCoy’s hand in his own.

It almost made McCoy nauseous, in all honesty. He was way too drunk and high to be feeling very good, anyway; plus, like any other time he had touched Spock, he felt the warm fizzle of Spock’s consciousness at the edges of his mind. Rather than simply existing perpetually out of reach, though, McCoy could now sense little snippets of emotion from Spock. 

They came haphazardly, bouncing into McCoy’s awareness without his control. It was almost as if Spock was talking in his sleep. 

Spinning around McCoy like lights on a carousel came surprise, affection, disappointment, shame, desire, confusion, and the smallest flicker of something else he couldn’t quite catch.

Surely, no one could blame him for feeling dizzy.

Encouraged by what he could sense of Spock’s emotional state, McCoy began to _actually_ kiss Spock, the way that had gotten him married and a father. He raised his left hand to grip Spock’s neck, feeling the speedy Vulcan pulse race beneath his fingertips.

It was almost too arousing to feel his own desire grow alongside someone else’s in such an intimate way. McCoy could feel his hands nearly shake with the strength of it.

McCoy finally pulled back for air. Spock’s entire face was flushed a deep forest green and his breath was coming shallow and quick.

The scent of the candle seemed almost too much now. McCoy felt as if he wasn’t getting enough air.

He coughed, then suddenly vomited on Spock and himself, putting out the candle with his spew.


	4. Chapter 4

Life was a bitch. 

McCoy was very familiar with that.

Life also didn’t wait for anyone.

He struggled to pull his gloves on over sweaty palms. One of the security lieutenants had come in for his weekly Bal’ltmasor treatment. McCoy, gloves finally on, collected the injection and rolled his doctor’s stool over to one of the exam beds.

“And how are you this morning, Lieutenant?” McCoy asked as Lieutenant Zunino removed his red tunic.

“Surviving, sir,” Zunino sighed, smile dry.

McCoy chuckled. “They’ll come around, son. You’re a good man. Wait it out.” 

Lieutenant Zunino had become one of McCoy’s favorite patients around the Enterprise. Due to his weekly appointments, the Doctor had learned much of the man’s life, including his current romantic woes. 

Zunino had married a handsome, willowy Betazoid named Emram, who was residing with their child on a Starbase near Betazed while Zunino completed his five-year mission. Emram was very sweet, according to Zunino, but had a habit of blaming all of their marital struggles on Zunino being a “heartless human.”

McCoy sympathized with the man, as he, too, had endured rough patches in a marriage. It was also intriguing for him to speak with someone who was so close to a Betazoid. McCoy had not met many of them, but he found the idea of a people who were so much more connected to their emotions to be fascinating. 

Damnit, he was starting to sound like Spock.

As Zunino waited the prescribed fifteen minutes after injection to avoid fainting, he regaled McCoy with stories about his finicky spouse. 

“I understand how Emram feels, I really do. I know I must seem really distant from them a lot of the time. And I don’t mean to, I really don’t. It’s just honestly kind of exhausting to be ‘on’ all the time, you know? I just don’t function at that level comfortably. I feel like I’m acting.” Zunino sighed. “I _want_ them to know I care about them, I just don’t think I can express it the way they want me to. Does that make sense?”

“I think Emram knows how you feel, Lieutenant,” McCoy comforted. “Relationships, even inter-species ones, are all about compromise. You can’t function at a Betazoid level and Emram can’t function at a human one—and that’s okay. You’re still young; you’ll figure it out. Now, go get back to work. Your fifteen minutes ended a while back, son.”

Kirk chuckled as he rounded the corner, Zunino exiting past him.

“How very sage of you, Bones,” the Captain grinned. 

McCoy rolled his eyes. “Unfortunately for you, it _is_ my job to give advice.” He picked up the discarded syringe and placed it in the sharps container by the bed. 

“What brings you down here, anyway?” The Doctor pulled his gloves off and washed his hands, lathering the soap up to his elbows. “Don’t you have more important things to pay attention to than me giving shots?”

“Oh, Bones, what could be more important?” Kirk teased, fluttering his eyelashes. “But seriously, I heard you got sick last night. Are you alright?”

McCoy’s stomach lurched at the memory. “Oh, dear Lord, can a man not have any privacy?” He groaned, pinching his nose. “Who told you?”

“Spock mentioned it. I asked him how the rest of the party was and he said it was fine but that you threw up and had to go back.”

McCoy felt a surge of gratitude towards Spock for editing out some of the more embarrassing details of last night.

“Yeah, well, partially true, anyway. I was fine ’til I got back and he lit his damn meditation candle. That thing always makes me nauseous, but I guess it was worse with all the food and drink. I made it to the bathroom just in time. He probably heard me through the door.” McCoy didn’t usually like to lie to Jim, but he figured this was something he really didn’t need to know about.

“Eugh, yeah, agreed,” Kirk said, grimacing. “I hate that thing. He used to light it when we had to room before you got promoted and _damn_ if it didn’t give me the worst headache. Kept me up all night, too. The only good thing was that it usually made my date pretty happy.”

McCoy snorted. “Happy they were being watched by a Vulcan?”

“No, no,” Kirk chuckled, “happy ‘cause it’s calming. It actually made some of ‘em high. I was with a Romulan girl once, hoooo… Well, she loved it. She said it gave her the biggest hard-on she’d ever had.”

“I’m sure Spock was thrilled about that.”

“Ha! Well, yeah, that was the downside. The candle came attached to a rather prudish friend of ours. Shame about the wine, actually. I was hoping he’d like it.”

“Does he like anything?” McCoy snorted.

Kirk chuckled a little but frowned. “Yeah… Well, anyway, I’m glad you’re feeling okay. I was worried you’d caught some horribly contagious disease and I wouldn’t be able to see you for weeks.” Kirk shot a sparkling grin at his friend.

McCoy rolled his eyes. “I wish. It’d save me from having to watch out for your stupid ass.”

“You love me,” Kirk winked.

“Worst luck of my life.”

. ⋅ ˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ .

After his shift, McCoy took his time walking back to his quarters. His conversation with Zunino had been weighing on his mind. 

It had only been a year since he’d signed those divorce papers with Jocelyn. It wasn’t as if he’d had any doubts— _hell_ no—it was just the finality of the thing. He was no longer a married man whose wife was cheating and had run off; he simply wasn’t a married man.

Those vows seemed thin as wet paper, anymore.

The worst of it was definitely Joanna. 

He still wrote to her and made sure to visit her when he was on leave, but he knew he wasn’t there for her and probably never could be. She had grown up as someone else’s daughter and he was in too deep to change that. 

All he could do was sit back and watch her forget him.

Sitting in his quarters, he felt so weak. So much of his life had been taken away from him, one way or another. It seemed God was determined to make him go the hard way.

The loss of his father was mostly numb at this point. He had killed him, it was simple as that. He accepted his guilt. 

He was guilty with Jocelyn, too. If he hadn’t been so set on getting his letters, they might still be together.

He might still have a wife and daughter. He might still have people who would always write to him, even when he was thousands of lightyears away. They would never forget about him, even if his five-year mission had ended.

  
Sure, he had friends. He’d known Scotty forever and Jim and, loathe as he was to admit it, he had Spock, too—that is, if he hadn’t botched that all up last night.

It was just so hard to stay in contact when you were separated so far and all you had to see each other by was the echo of the other person through a screen.

He wondered what Joanna was doing now. It was just about lunch time where she was on Centaurus, if he remembered the conversion correctly. Maybe she was having a peanut butter sandwich. She’d loved peanut butter as a toddler.

It was hard to believe she was eighteen already. _You blink and your baby is gone._

Sinking into the couch cushions, McCoy swallowed around the lump in his throat. 

Damning Spock and damning the hangover he’d get in the morning, he put himself to sleep.


	5. Chapter 5

“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me,” McCoy groaned as the sky opened up and began pouring.

The Enterprise had been assigned to chaperone a group of peaceful traders across their star system, which was rife with Ferengi pirates. A team had been sent down to one of the planets, a mossy, hilly environment that recalled the Celtic areas of Terran, to provide assistance during their actual trade. 

The Captain had remained on the ship to look out for pirates, but had failed to predict that the pirates were already planetside. 

Three security officers and Spock had been sent down to the planet to protect the traders. Two of the officers were dead and Spock had been wounded by the Ferengi. More security officers had been sent down to detain the pirates and neutralize the threat, and Doctor McCoy had been sent down with them to tend to Spock, who was refusing to leave the planet until the mission was completed.

The rain soaked through McCoy’s uniform and hung heavy on his eyelashes. 

“Cirrug V is possessed of an extremely saturated atmosphere,” Spock noted, voice clenched from pain. He had been blasted in the upper left leg, just above the knee.

“You can say that again.” 

“That would be most inefficient,” Spock gritted out.

Spock had said he was fine to walk, but McCoy kept an arm out, ready to catch him if he slipped on the wet grass.

They found a shallow cave within a semi-circle of hills that was mostly sheltered from the rain. McCoy made Spock sit down and remove his wet tunic.

“You’ll freeze to death in that wet thing.”

“Vulcans can easily regulate their internal temperature, Doctor.”

“Shut up and take it off. You can't regulate it while you’re wounded; we both know that.”

Spock removed his tunic. The black of his undershirt complimented his coloration, McCoy noted vaguely.

“We need to get you warm,” McCoy mumbled. He scraped up some dead moss from the cave walls and gathered it into a small pile, then lit it with his phaser.

McCoy gently grasped Spock’s leg and extended it. The fabric of Spock’s trousers had been burnt away with the blast, allowing McCoy a somewhat grisly view of the injury.

After inspecting it for a moment, McCoy let out a breath. “Well, the good news is it isn’t very deep. The bad news is that it’s been contaminated by the fabric so there are threads all through it.”

“I assume they must be removed?” Spock asked.

“Yes, indeed. I’ll have to do it on the ship. They’re too small to get with anything but my little forceps. In the meantime, I’m sure you’re already starting to heal yourself, so it’s best to have you rest and move it as little as possible before I can patch it.”

Spock’s pressed his lips together. “Doctor, I may be needed urgently if the operation goes poorly.”

“You’ve done your job, Mr. Spock, now let me do mine. We’ve got our best security officers down there and Jim can still call down the big guns from up top if things don’t look good. You’re gonna sit there and quit fidgeting so much.”

“I do not ‘fidget,’ Doctor.”

“Bullshit,” McCoy drawled. 

Spock sighed and reclined against the cave wall. “As you wish.”

The two fell into silence, listening to the rain pour.

McCoy had mostly gotten over his feelings of embarrassment about the whole fiasco with the incense and vomiting and the—he hesitated even in thought—kiss. He was nearing forty years old and it was hard to get to that age without laughing at yourself a little. Plus, as the CMO, he’d seen Spock in more than enough “compromising situations” to make up for a drunken kiss.

Plus, Spock seemed to have either forgotten about the whole thing—very doubtful, but McCoy could dream—or deemed it another of McCoy’s illogical behaviors that he wasn’t going to spend time worrying about.

McCoy’s little fire warmed their shins for a good five minutes, then sputtered and died as the rainwater sprayed into the mouth of the cave. 

_This is why mom doesn’t fucking love you,_ he thought darkly at the Cirrug sky.

The air cooled quickly. McCoy also had removed his soaked tunic and his bare arms were covered in goose-bumps. 

“You are cold.”

McCoy reflexively covered his arms to hide the evidence of his discomfort. “Says who?”

“Your physiological responses.” Spock struggled as he began to stand. “You need warmth.”

“Now, wait just a minute, you fucking idiot!” McCoy dashed to Spock’s side, pressing his shoulders down. “You can’t move that, you’ll re-open what’s already clotted and make it worse.”

Spock shrugged McCoy off and continued to try and stand, using the cave wall for support.

“Doctor, we are both in need of warmth, you more immediately than I. There is no nearby fuel for a fire and it is only logical that the both of us search for flammable objects while the conflict has still not yet made it this far.”

“You’re injured, you big green dumbass! I can search for wood just fine. Now, sit your ass back down and let me do my job.”

“Doctor—“

McCoy shot the pile they had made of their soaked tunics. They lit up instantly.

“There. Fire. Now, sit down.”

Spock sank wordlessly to the floor. “We could have easily found alternative fuel and saved our uniforms from needless destruction, Doctor.”

“Yes, and you would’ve needlessly damaged your already wounded leg and we both would’ve gotten more soaked in the rain out there. It was a _logical_ sacrifice.”

Spock raised an eyebrow and folded his arms, pretending he wasn’t hiding a smile.

McCoy sighed. “Plus, we don’t know how long this whole thing is gonna take and those shirts’ll burn slow.” He sat down beside Spock, leaning against the wall and letting his shins be warmed by the flames. 

“The sacrifice of personal belongings by humans is often considered difficult enough to warrant unnecessary hardship to avoid it,” Spock said.

“Yeah, well, it’s not worth you getting hurt, dumbass.”

Spock sighed in a put-upon manner, but relaxed and extended his leg again. “It is exceptionally difficult to ascertain your desires upon any given day, Doctor. They vary as with the wind.”

“That’s what happens when you actually _have_ desires, Spock. I thought we’d already established I was a finicky, over-emotional human.”

“Desires are not limited to over-emotional beings.”

McCoy rolled his eyes. “Oh, yes, I’m sure you desire _logic_ at all times, Spock.”

“Doctor,” Spock’s voice was a muted incredulous, “Vulcans are not the only creatures who choose to mask what feelings they have. You yourself do so quite regularly.”

“ _You’re_ qualified to speak on the subject. I doubt you’ve ever shown a single true emotion in your whole life.”

Spock turned to stare at McCoy. 

The firelight on the Vulcan’s features recalled to McCoy the scene in Spock’s quarters. 

The Doctor felt his face begin to flush.

“Doctor, I mean no ill will by saying this, but I do not believe you know what you are talking about.”

McCoy snorted and began to turn away, offended.

“You assume that, because you are human, you are easy to understand. This is not so. You are frequently contradictory, masked, and deflective when questioned about how you, in your terms, ‘really feel.’ It is nearly impossible for anyone to determine your desires and affections.”

“Maybe you just can’t understand them because your cold, green blood won’t let you feel anything,” McCoy spat. His heart was racing and he didn’t know where Spock was going with this.

“Doctor, why do you think Vulcans form attachments?”

“Your father said it was the _logical_ thing to do.”

“My mother was a Terran schoolteacher before she married my father. He had already been betrothed to a Vulcan princess and had a child by her. If he was truly attempting to gain favor with humans by wedding one of them, would it not be wiser to choose a more higher-ranking individual?”

“Not necessarily. He could’ve been attempting to relate to ‘the common man.’”

“That is not in my father’s character.”

  
McCoy sighed. “Spock, no offense, but I really don’t need your family history right now. I thought we’d long ago decided that the actions of one’s forbearers should have no consequence on the way one is viewed.”

McCoy turned to look at Spock. His gaze was striking. _Were his eyes always this brown?_

“I don’t know where you’re going with this,” McCoy murmured, palms getting sweaty.

“You do.”

Not breaking eye contact, Spock carefully raised his two fingers in the way McCoy remembered seeing Mrs. Sarek do.

McCoy turned to look behind himself. “Is there somethin’ back there?” When he turned back, Spock was closed like an Old Earth book, staring intently at the fire.

“No.”

McCoy settled back against the wall, feeling simultaneously relieved and disappointed.


	6. Chapter 6

_His skin was over-sensitive, burning._

_Long fingers glided over his stomach, thumbs on his iliac crests._

_His lips, genitals itched; he arched to scratch them against something, anything. They met with cool, soft, heavy, yielding. It was enough, finally enough._

_Reaching, grasping, his hands connected with ribcage—one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen—fingers bumping over skin over bone over vulnerable organs and blood and life-force._

_Deeper, deeper he kissed into the illusion._

_It was so obviously charlatan: frictionless all-encompassing mouthhandslegsfingersbreath. It was all wrong._

_But, it felt so right._

_Shattering, falling away, images fading, blinding white—_

McCoy woke up, frustrated in more ways than one.

“Are ya ready, Bones?” Kirk grinned rakishly down at him.

“Get the fuck off me,” McCoy croaked.

“‘Get the fuck off me, _Captain_ ,’” Kirk corrected with a wink. “We’re not on shore leave just quite yet. Still have some hoops to jump through.”

McCoy turned over and pulled his pillow over his head. “I’m sure you’re more than capable, _sir_. Now, will you let me get my regulation-approved eight hours?”

“Nope. You’re coming with me.”

McCoy groaned. “Jim, no.”

“But Booooonessss,” Kirk pleaded. “We’ve gotta leave now if we wanna get to Centaurus in time.”

McCoy sat up immediately. “You didn’t.”

Kirk’s smile bloomed. “I did.”

“Damnit, why didn’t you wake me up earlier?”  
Kirk laughed. “I tried!”

Soon, but not soon enough, the Enterprise had docked and McCoy and the Captain were aboard a shuttle _en route_ to Centaurus.

They were going to stay in a hotel close to where Joanna was living with her aunt and uncle.

McCoy felt his stomach clench at the thought of seeing his daughter again. Last year’s shore leave, they’d been several galaxies away and hadn’t had the time for McCoy to go see her. 

Her eighteenth birthday was several months ago. He’d arranged for flowers to be delivered to her, but that’s not showing up. He hadn't been able to show up for her birthday for almost five years.

Lord, would she even _want_ to see him?

McCoy was rattled from his melancholy when Kirk handed him a cup of coffee.

“Bones,” he said, quiet. “It’ll be okay.”

. ⋅ ˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ .

Sinking into a plush bed on real gravity-bound soil was one of life's little pleasures, McCoy believed. His aching back sang and as its curve was straightened and inverted alternately.

“Jim,” he moaned, face buried in pillows. “I God-damn love you, you son of a bitch.”

Jim, who had just finished showering, emerged with his hair in a towel turban.

“Knew it,” Kirk grinned.

The next morning, the two headed out to see Joanna. 

Kirk had come along with him to visit his daughter several times before. McCoy appreciated his familiar presence as he went to see someone whose lack of familiarity invariably caused feelings of inadequacy and self-hatred.

His sister opened the door.

“Lenny!” She beamed, pulling him in for a hug. “How _are_ you? It’s been _ages._ And Kirk! So nice of you to come along. Here, I've just put the coffee on—come on in!”

The two men followed her inside.

The Withers household was short but sprawling, like a man reclined on his back porch. It consisted of a main building, a garage and loft above it, and a stable with room for four horses. As a young girl, Joanna had gone riding in the long pasturelands that surrounded the house. Her horse was named Pickle.

“Jo’s been helping Fred out in the garden,” Donna said. “Our tomatoes are just coming up.”

Kirk smiled. “My favorite food growing up was a fried egg sandwich with a ripe tomato right on top.”

He and Donna continued in conversation that McCoy was unable to follow. The Doctor’s eyes panned across the room, catching on each of the framed photographs that were haphazardly arranged on coffee tables, bookshelves, and windowsills. Some of them he remembered from his last visit, and some of them were new. He spent several minutes cataloguing each facial expression, memorizing them for those lonely nights in spaceflight.

Fred and Joanna came in the kitchen door, hands muddied with dirt. McCoy’s heart nearly stopped as he waited for her to notice him. As soon as her gaze met his, her face cracked into a huge grin.

“Daddy!” She gasped. “You’re back!”

McCoy felt himself go limp as he waited for her to wash her hands and dry them on her jeans, dashing over to him as soon as she could.

“I missed you so much,” he said into her hair, hugging her tight. “I thought about you every single day.”

“I missed you too, Daddy.” Her voice was muffled by his shirt, a—thank the Lord—non-uniform flannel in a faded red print. “I got your flowers, and your letters.”

McCoy released his daughter reluctantly and settled back on the sofa beside her. As they caught each other up on the details of their lives the past two years, McCoy made sure to pay careful attention to the nuances of her appearance.

The last time he’d seen her, she’d been sixteen with a short bob haircut. This year, her golden brown hair was in a double braid and reached just past her shoulders. The brown eyes she’d gotten from her mother crinkled up in happiness when she told stories of her friends and her last year of schooling before University.

“I’m going for nursing,” she said, voice tinged with reverence—reverence for him. “I only hope I’ll get an assignment half as exciting as yours.”

Fighting the tears that threatened to flood his eyes, he put his palm against her cheek. “I’m sure it’ll be even better.”

. ⋅ ˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ .

After dinner, Kirk and McCoy returned to their hotel. 

The Doctor’s head was spinning. As he sat on the edge of the bed, he could feel his hair turning grey.

“Eighteen,” he whispered. “She’s eighteen.”

“Sorry?”

“Nothin’, nothin’,” he mumbled. 

It was relieving to see Joanna, certainly, but McCoy couldn’t brush the feeling that he’d missed the boat. His heart sank within him. Yes, she was still his daughter, but she was no longer his _child_. 

Years ago, back before he’d been stupid enough to fly off on some Godforsaken starship, she’d been his little girl. He’d come home late after his classes and go to her bedroom. She would already be asleep, but he’d kiss her and brush her hair off her forehead. Watching her there, he’d felt whole, somehow, in a way his marriage had never made him feel. He felt like he’d finally found the other piece of himself. He had someone who would remember him and who’d be excited when he came home…

…and he’d given it all up to serve the damn Federation.

He kicked his suitcase closed. The sight of his science blues made him sick.

Unable to speak, McCoy flicked his bedside lamp off and turned to the wall.

. ⋅ ˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ .

Kirk put up with him until the last day of shore leave.

“Bones,” he said, “I’m not trying to be mean.”

“You realize I’m now expecting you to be mean, right?”

Kirk smiled wryly. “Look, Bones. I know this has been tough on you. Let’s go out this evening, huh? Get some action in? Forget everything else in the world exists except you and me and whatever sweet, sweet concoction the bartender comes up with? Sound alright?”

After saying his goodbyes to Joanna that afternoon (and crying), McCoy let Kirk drag his sorry ass to the nearest bar.

“Repeat after me, Bones: life is shit, but at least we have friends, food, and—and—fun things to drink!”

“You’re a fuckin’ idiot, you know that?” McCoy laughed.

“Oh, I know. Trust me. You won’t let me forget it.”

They found a plush booth near the edge of the room. The seats were covered in some faux-animal skin, the scales about as big as McCoy’s palms.

They put in their orders and McCoy got lost in the ambience.

“I gotta tell ya, Jim, you are one hell of a lot better roommate than Spock.”

“He doesn’t even know what a good time is,” Kirk agreed.

“You’ve got that right.”

“What did I say, huh? Stick up his ass the size of Bajor.”

McCoy laughed as the server brought out their food and drinks.

“Hey, to good times,” Kirk said, raising his stein.

“Cheers.”

They clinked their glasses together and swallowed some down.

It was wonderful to be able to spend time with Kirk again. McCoy could feel the built-up stress simply melting out of him. Not only did Kirk know how to have a good time, but he knew how to make you feel good about having it, too. The further he dug himself into his little hole of greasy finger-foods, beer, and the blended music of distant chatter and Kirk’s laughter, the less his guilt and shame weighed on him

“You know what I think?” McCoy pontificated, several drinks in, “I think.. I think that there simply _aren’t_ any good things in life. Nothin’ good. No good. Good things last, they make you feel good, they—they _mean_ something. _Nothin’_ fits all three. Absolutely nothin’. Even if it’s the most—most _perfect_ thing to happen to you, it won’t last for _shi—it_. Take Jo. My beautiful daughter. My beautiful… beautiful daughter. Just last week I was tucking her into bed and the week ‘fore that I was… I was holdin’ her in my arms th’ first time. Now, she’s all grown up and following her stupid old man into space.”

Kirk, who was also a little pie-eyed, giggled and nodded his head. “Wonderful, Bones. Wonderful. You should be a—a doctor of _somethin’.”_

_“_ I am, you knucklehead.”

“No, I mean of, uh, what’s the…” Kirk searched for the right word. “Psychology! Brain stuff. Smart. ‘Cause you’re so smart.”

“At least someone admits it,” McCoy laughed. “You want more of that?”

Kirk was able to keep up with him most of the night, but cashed out finally at around 1:00am, pretty well smashed.

“Holy. Fuckin’ shit. Holy shit, Bones. … _shit_. Wow.” 

McCoy giggled, clutching Kirk’s arm. The two of them were pissed, hanging on each other as they stumbled down the short block to their hotel.

“Jim,” McCoy gasped between laughter, “Jim, I’ve got a…” he blinked hard,forcing himself to concentrate on the words, “…bottle up in the room. Snuck it—snuck it out.”

“Oh, Bones, I don’t think I can—can do that. I don’t think I can. Don’t think I can do it, this time. Way too much,” Kirk slurred.

They made it into the hotel lobby and stood swaying in the turbolift.

“Shit,” Kirk mumbled. “I’m gonna…”

McCoy lunged to shove Kirk upright. “No, you don’t, you fuckin’… _idiot_. Not in the ‘lift.” He managed to get Kirk to the bathroom just in time for the Captain to vomit up half of his stomach. 

Shaking hands pouring a glass of water for Kirk, McCoy felt himself roll his eyes as his communicator pinged.

“What do you want?” He snarled into the infuriating device. 

As soon as he heard Spock’s cool monotone, saying something McCoy didn’t quite catch or care about, he snapped the communicator shut and tossed it on the floor.

He turned the dingy little hotel television on and flicked it to some nature channel, showcasing Centaurus’s grand mountains and other related scenery. The calm, reassuring voice of the narrator helped him blur out the details of this past week to a soft pinkish glow. He didn’t need to think right now. No, all he needed to do was sit back, open up the bottle of Andorian brandy he’d snuck past Starfleet security, and settle into his pillows. Thinking too much about tomorrow made him want to cry.

It was best to just forget it.

Kirk staggered out of the bathroom, finally, and collapsed face-first onto his bed. He reeked of vomit and the piercing scent of digested alcohol. 

He groaned something McCoy couldn’t make out into the pillow.

“What?”

Gasping into the open air of the room, Kirk moaned, “What did you do to me, Bones? What did you—what did you _do?_ I’m gonna die—I’m gonna _fuckin_ ’ die.”

McCoy laughed. “Weak. You’re—you’re weak, Jim. Gettin’ old.”

“I’m not… _fuckin_ ’ old.”

“Sure, you’re not.”

Kirk moaned and pulled a pillow over his head.

. ⋅ ˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ .

Things got a little different between them after that night.

Kirk always seemed to have a pitying smile on his face when he talked to McCoy. 

It was infuriating because McCoy could barely remember what happened besides going out to eat and getting drunk. He had this nasty feeling that Kirk knew about something that he didn’t, or that he’d accidentally spilled his whole life’s sob story to Kirk and now he’d never be able to live it down.

So, he did what he always did when things got uncomfortable: he ran away.

For about two weeks after they came back from leave, McCoy busied himself with his work and went straight to his quarters afterwards, relaxing with a good book and a glass of whiskey, ignoring everything and everyone else.

The only annoying thing about his little plan was Spock, who had taken to meditating nearly twice as much as he’d done before. The stink of his incense soaked under the bathroom door and made McCoy’s head spin.

Eventually, frustrated, McCoy stuffed a shirt under the crack of the door.


	7. Chapter 7

“Weeeee have your Vullllllcannnnn,” the alien voice hissed over a stolen communicator. “And weeeee won’t give himmmmm back.”

“Who are they? Sulu, get me a visual.”

“Aye, Captain.”

An image of the planet’s surface blinked onto the viewer. Nowhere to be seen were the friendly farming race who supposedly inhabited the planet. Instead, the surface was populated with sparse groups of short, reptilian creatures, whose forked tongues flicked out when they spoke. None of the Enterprise crew could be seen, either.

“Where are the Pforb? Have they been taken, as well?”

“Weeee knowwww of no Pforb, Captainnnnnn,” the creature hissed. “Weeeeee knowwww onlyyyyy of ourssssselvesssssss.”

“And who are you? Identify yourselves.”

“Weeeee have no name, Captainnnnn Kirk. Weeeeee have no need of a name. Weeeee are alone.”

“You’re not alone right now. Where have you taken our crew? What have you done with them?” Muting himself momentarily, Kirk added quietly, “Scotty, get some more security ready to beam down. Don’t send them yet, but have them wait for my signal.”

“Aye, sir.”

“And Uhura, get me any data you can on this planet. We need anything we can get.”

“Yes, Captain.”

Sulu adjusted the viewer and the reptilian they were speaking with came into focus on the screen.

“Weeeee only want your Vullllllcannnnn,” it said. “The resssssst mayyyyyy go.”

“What do you want Spock for? Why him? Why a Vulcan?” Kirk’s hands gripped his chair tight.

“Weeeeee like Vulllllcannnnnsssss.” With a scaly smile, the creature crushed the communicator it had been using and dropped it, useless, to the rocky ground. As it did so, the viewer went dark.

“Why? Why do you like them? No— _damnit!_ Sulu, can you get it back up? _Damn it!_ Bones!” He punched the intercom on his Captain’s chair. “Bones! Get to the transporter, now! Sulu, take the conn!”

Kirk dashed to the transporter room.

“What’s going on?” McCoy asked as soon as he met up with Kirk. “What’s the matter?”

“The Pforb aren’t there. It’s these lizard-people, like a shorter version of the Gorn. They’ve kidnapped the landing party, and they have some fascination with Spock. They want to keep him for something. They say they ‘like Vulcans.’”

“Shit,” McCoy mumbled. “That could be anything.”

Strapping on their phasers and communicators, the two beamed down, along with three security officers.

“Bones, you’re with me," Kirk ordered. “The rest of you, split up and keep us covered. We need to search for Spock.”

. ⋅ ˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ .

“Youuuu musssssst beeeee wondering whyyyyy weeeeee want youuuuuu,” the native burbled. 

“There are many logical reasons why a civilization such as yours might prefer a senior officer to his subordinates,” Spock replied, tone carefully neutral. He was being led through a thick desert wood with scrubby vegetation that pricked his legs. 

The mission had gone very poorly, very quickly. 

He and several other science officers had beamed down to consult with Pforb representatives about their farming methods and agricultural production, something which many Federation planets envied because of their ability to produce such high quantities of food with so little water or nutrient in their soil. Spock himself had been curious about their methods, given their practicality on Vulcan.

Yet, there had been no Pforb anywhere after they had beamed down. Within minutes, they had been ambushed by these natives, and Spock had been swiftly separated from the rest of the crew.

As first officer, this bothered him. Part of his duties were to calm his fellow officers and assist them in their escape efforts. Though he at first had dismissed it as illogical, he now saw the merits of telling humans they were ‘going to be okay.’ Without fail, it made them perform better in stressful situations, improved their mood, and made them less susceptible to emotional outbursts. The fact he was unable to do so now irked him no small amount.

He had tried to fight back, naturally, but had quickly learned his mistake. When agitated, the planet’s natives were able to eject a sort of venom from glands near the back of their mouth cavity. This venom could be accurately aimed and discharged onto a victim, who would stiffen, foam at the mouth, and turn almost to stone. Spock lost one of his science officers to such a fate. Outnumbered as he was, he decided acquiescing to their demands would be the safest option.

The native led him to a bare, stone-walled building, pushed him in, and closed and locked the door.

“Remove your garmentsssssss,” it hissed. “Alllllll of themmmmmm.”

“May I ask why?” Spock requested.

“You willlll underssssstand sssssssooonnnnnnn.” 

The native then waddled off.

As soon as it had left, Spock went to wrench open the door. He stopped short, though, when he noticed the same shining venom covering the bars of the door. Disappointment and stress tangling in his stomach, he retreated.

He didn’t particularly want to remove his clothing, so he didn’t. He figured the natives would be unlikely to strike him down, given that they seemed so keen on keeping him for something.

Spock hesitated to think too much on what that something may be.

It was not much spoken of on Vulcan, except for parents to warn their children about. Spock himself had been warned twice: once, as a young child, and a second time, when he had told his parents he was to join Starfleet. 

He distinctly recalled the tension in his father’s face and the pained way in which he told him, “Beware, my son, those who wish to break a Vulcan. They hide in plain sight.”

He still shivered at the memory.

Indeed, he had encountered many such types at the Academy. Most of them were young, human males, though there were several females, as well. They had all wished to see how such a stoic race would react when pushed to its extremes. This often resulted in attempts at torture, both physical and sexual. 

Spock had always been wary of strangers, so he had only been caught unawares once. 

It was his second year at the Academy, when he was still young and unworldly, and he had been required to attend a social gathering as practice for his one command track course on diplomacy. The event was held in a more distant part of campus, and Spock had had some minor difficulty locating where, precisely, he was.

As he attempted to find the most direct route back, he had been cornered in an alley between two campus buildings. 

He did not know the young man, nor did he recognize him at all, but it was clear the man knew Spock. He had been tracking him, he said, for nearly a month. Whipping a knife out, he had backed Spock against the wall and nearly began a grotesque form of artwork on Spock’s face.

Had it not been for a security guard on her nightly patrol, Spock shrunk from imagining what could have happened.

Since then, he had developed much more effective means of self-defense and become quite a lot less naïve. While he still encountered the occasional Vulcan-fetishist, he was now in a position to protect himself and his dignity.

Now, however, faced with a race who could quite easily paralyze him from a distance, Spock felt a slight ball of panic grow in his lower abdomen. 

He hoped the rescue party would arrive quickly.

. ⋅ ˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ .

Kirk and McCoy had managed to locate the tracks of the landing party, the evidence of a scuffle, and the tracks of the two groups who had been led away with the reptilian creatures.

Kirk sent two of the red shirts off to locate the remainder of the landing party and brought one with himself and McCoy to look for Spock.

“I wonder what devilish things these lizard bastards have up their sleeves,” McCoy muttered.

“I don’t know and I don’t really want to find out,” Kirk replied.

They followed the tracks to a stone-walled building. Kirk peered inside.

“Bones! I see his uniform. But he’s not in here!”

“Why would they have him remove his uniform? Are they gonna cook him?”

Kirk shuddered. “They better not. That's my first officer!”

The three of them looked around for a while, then found another set of tracks, this one purely reptilian. Kirk figured they might as well follow them, since they had nothing else to go by.

Soon, they found themselves walking up to a large, Ancient Aztec-style building, with terraced steps of stone leading to an altar at the top of the structure.

“Bones, you stay here and watch for any movement. The Lieutenant and I will go in.”

McCoy nodded, happy to remain mostly out of harm’s way. He liked to feel useful, but there were times when he realized he needed to stay alive to do anyone any good.

Crouching in the prickly underbrush, McCoy waited.

His insides curdled at the thought of what they might be doing to Spock. His throat ached for a drink. He didn’t think there were any races who wanted to actually _eat_ Vulcans, but he could be wrong. _They must want him for his brain_ , he figured. _I’ll bet he’s finally realizing there actually are benefits to being human_.

Hearing footsteps, McCoy crouched lower so his head was covered by the vegetation. Several reptilians passed him by, speaking low.

“Have youuuu ever ssssseen a realllll Vulllllcannnn?” The first one asked.

“Noooo, I haven’t. I have hearrrrd they arrrre dellllicioussssssss, though.” The second replied.

McCoy’s heart dropped.

_They really were going to eat him!_

. ⋅ ˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ .

It took a great deal of concentration for Spock not to let his emotional state show.

His captor had returned to the building, ripped his uniform off of him, and bound him with what appeared to be vine. Spock had fought back, this time, sensing an opportunity to flee.

Before he had the chance to get very far, however, he had been shot with the native’s venom, and had found himself unable to move. He was bound once more and hefted upon the creature’s back.

  
He was taken to the top of a large, stone structure that appeared to be an altar of some kind. The native gracelessly dropped him in an ashy pit at the center of the floor, then left down a set of stairs.

Bound, naked, and paralyzed: Spock could not imagine a more vulnerable state. He cursed himself for allowing such a thing to happen. If he had only fought back with more skill and strength when the natives had first attacked, then this would not have happened. The only consolation was that the rest of his science team was to be spared, or so the natives had claimed. 

They could always change their minds.

After approximately a quarter of an hour, his captor returned, followed by two other creatures. They removed his ties, though that did him no good. It was almost more insulting to be lying there, free to move, if only his limbs had the strength.

The creatures rearranged him so he was spread-eagle. 

Closing his eyes, Spock let himself drift into a deep, meditative state. He could not bear the indignity of what was most likely to happen next.

It was within this state that he vaguely noticed a body falling atop himself. He felt its scaly hides gliding against his own rough skin. He pushed the sensation from his consciousness. 

It made the bile rise in his throat.

Not only that, but the natives were incredibly heavy. Spock’s chest struggled to rise for each breath. 

(Some small, disgusted part of himself recognized a warm fluid dripping along his abdomen and pooling near his hips.)

Retreating farther within himself, Spock went completely numb.

. ⋅ ˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ .

Kirk and the security officer crept up to the structure, backs tight against the stone and eyes peering out for any of the reptilian creatures.

The staircase was empty, but it was also directly within the eyesight of everyone within a mile’s radius. They made a circle around the altar, but could find no other way up.

Gritting his teeth, Kirk made the decision. He signaled to the red shirt and they began their ascent.

They made their way to the top without incident, but were immediately met with three reptilians on the roof.

Kirk had received a hurried report from Uhura on these creatures and their venom, so he knew to duck when the creature opened its mouth. Rolling to the ground, he was able to shoot it with his phaser directly under its fleshy chin, straight through the brain. Unfortunately, the reptile’s venom struck the security officer and he fell, dead, to the ground.

The other two were more difficult to handle. Kirk attempted a similar maneuver on them, but they were too quick, anticipating his movements. Thinking on his feet, Kirk ran behind them and jumped on the one’s back. He was about to shoot it through its head, but had to dodge the other’s venom at the last moment. 

In the back of his mind, Kirk wondered whether McCoy could see the fight playing out and, if so, what colorful remarks he was making down in the brush.

Eventually, Kirk was able to trip one of creatures; though, unfortunately, it tripped over Spock and landed quite heavily atop him. Moving as fast as he could, Kirk shot the creature and dashed out of the way of the last one standing.

Kicking its feet out, the Captain was able to bring the creature to its belly. From there, he simply stood on its shoulders and withdrew his phaser once more.

Flipping open his communicator, Kirk shouted, “Kirk to Enterprise, I’ve found Mr. Spock. Beam him up immediately.”

As Spock sparkled into thin air, Kirk ran back down the stairs to go fetch McCoy.


	8. Chapter 8

McCoy was standing by Spock’s bedside when he awoke.

“Took you long enough,” the Doctor teased. 

Spock’s brown eyes blinked several times, his gaze downcast. Something about him seemed off, to McCoy. 

“Are you alright? Any pain? We don't know much about their venom, so we don't know if it stays very long in the bloodstream. Thankfully, your green stuff was able to save you from the worst of it, but you’ll probably have a sore back for a couple of days.”

Spock said nothing, simply nodded and stared at his hands.

McCoy cleared his throat. “The Captain found you just in time. Looked like they were hankerin’ for some Vulcan soup.” Somehow, that seemed to make Spock even more stiff. “I’m kidding, just kidding. They didn’t really do much of anything before Jim killed ‘em all. You’ve got a pretty nasty bruise on your ribs, actually, where one of ‘em landed. There was blood all over you. It was damn disgusting.”

“Blood?” Spock croaked, throat dry.

“Yeah. _Red_ , too, so I know it wasn’t yours.”

“Did the Captain make any other comments?”

McCoy scratched at his stubble. “Just that the rest of the landing party was safe and unharmed. Oh! And that the Pforb apparently didn't even exist. Well, they _did_ exist, but about a thousand years ago. Their signal was still beeping away, buried in that dirt. They probably starved to death, ironically.”

Spock’s shoulders seemed to loosen, but he was still visibly uncomfortable. “Was my uniform recovered?”

“No, unfortunately,” McCoy replied, sitting down on his stool. “It was damn near shreds, though, so I don’t think that’s much of a loss to you.”

“No.”

“Well,” McCoy said, slapping his knees. “Let me know if you need anything. Just give a holler.”

Spock nodded.

McCoy retreated to his office. He hated to admit it, but being around Spock was making him nervous. 

This past month had been a whirlwind of emotions. His hands were starting to shake. What he wouldn’t give for a drink, right now…

Sure, he could admit he was attracted to the Vulcan, but that didn’t really mean anything. He could get attracted to anything so long as it moved the right way. Besides, he wasn’t stupid. He and Spock were ridiculously incompatible. And even besides that, Spock didn’t like him, could hardly even tolerate him. He doubted the Vulcan was even _capable_ of something like—

love.

He pulled out the old bottle of brandy he kept under his desk and downed a shot to steady himself. He could deal with rejection. It wasn’t anything he hadn’t done before.

Not really knowing why, McCoy got up and went back to Spock’s bedside.

“Doctor,” Spock greeted, more alert now after having food and water. “I believe the venom has been metabolizing quickly. Feeling has returned to my limbs and nearly all of my extremities. It is only my fingertips that remain numbed.”

“Good, good,” McCoy replied, distracted by something he couldn't name. “That’s great.” He swallowed nervously and stuffed his shaking hands in his pants pockets.

“We were worried about you,” he continued, after a moment. “I mean, I was throwing a party, but Jim was worried.” _Shit_. This was not going anywhere near well. What was he doing, anyway? What was he trying to accomplish? He might as well go back and hole up in his office until Chapel discharged Spock.

“I see.” Spock was wiggling his fingers, attempting to return feeling to them through increased blood flow. It lent him a nervous, restless air, as of a child about to go onstage for their first school play.

McCoy pulled his gaze from Spock’s long, pale fingers and stared instead at his own, clamped tight to his knees.

Before he had the chance to back out again, Spock caught him with a question.

“Doctor,” he asked, “may I ask you something?”

“You just did, technically,” McCoy responded, nerves ablaze. He could never tell whether he was irritated with Spock, or fond of him. The two got mixed up in his stomach somewhere.

“Doctor, did you complete a full physical examination on me, after I was returned to the Enterprise?”

McCoy frowned. “I always do, after a mission. Why?”

“Did you find anything abnormal?”

“Yeah, the fact you were covered in alien blood, were paralyzed, and had a bruise the size of my head on your abdomen. Oh yeah, and the fact you were buck naked. That’s pretty abnormal for you, you’ve gotta admit.”

“Indeed. Was that all?” 

McCoy stared at Spock for a moment, trying to ascertain what, exactly, he meant. Spock’s face was blank, as usual, but McCoy could sense a growing anxiety behind his calm veneer.

“Ye—es,” McCoy said slowly. “Why? Does somethin’ feel the matter? Do you want me to check again?”

“Are you certain it was blood, Doctor?” Spock asked, suddenly, eyes the most unguarded McCoy had ever seen.

“Blood and some sweat and dirt. That’s it.”

Spock’s eyes fluttered close for a moment, then reopened with renewed vigor. “Thank you, Doctor. That is all.”

“No trouble, Mr. Spock. Get well soon.” He clapped his hand on Spock’s shoulder (gently, mindful of his injury), and retreated back to his office.

He remained there until he was certain Spock had been discharged. In fact, he avoided most all contact until the end of his shift, when he slunk back to his quarters to cry into his drink and untangle his very confusing feelings for one specific Vulcan. Chapel may have given him an odd glance, but he truly did have a mountain of reports to fill out, especially about that last mission, so he didn’t feel _too_ bad about shutting his door and keeping his head down.

When he finally made it back to his quarters, he headed straight for the bathroom. He wanted a long, hot, steamy shower and no damned Vulcan, however enticing, was going to take that away from him. Somewhat disapp—no, _thankfully_ —Spock had not yet returned to his quarters and McCoy was free to relax in peace.

No shower was truly relaxing unless you were drunk; McCoy was a firm believer in that. He felt he deserved to unwind after such a shitty afternoon. So, he had the computer put on some Old Earth country music, turned to lights to 65%, and stepped in to his hot, steamy little paradise.

“ _Long-necked, ice-cold beer never broke my heart!”_ The sound system crooned.

Sucking down a cold one, McCoy couldn’t agree more. 

The door opened, suddenly, and McCoy dropped the shampoo bottle on his foot in his haste to close the shower curtain. 

“Damnit!” He hissed, toe stinging. “Spock, what are you doing? I’m trying to shower!”

Spock’s voice was muffled through the sound of the water hitting the tub, but McCoy recognized in it the strain of someone sick to their stomach. “I apologize, Doctor, I would not have entered were it not important. I tried knocking but I received no answer.”

_The damned music_ , McCoy figured.

“Well, what’s so important? Are you gonna vom?” No matter how much he disliked being around Spock right now, it was impossible to deny his basest instincts to care for the sick.

“That is a distinct possibility.”

“Ah, shit,” McCoy mumbled, turning off the water. “Here, turn around for a sec, will you? And hand me a towel.”

Spock did so, and McCoy quickly dried off his hair and body before emerging from the tub, towel around his waist. 

“Computer, turn that music off. Lights up to 95. Spock, here, sit down,” McCoy closed the lid on the toilet, “keep upright as much as possible. Did this just hit you suddenly or have you been nauseous for a while?”

Spock, quite pale, sat down on the closed toilet and swallowed hard. “I have been experiencing low-level nausea ever since being shot with the native’s venom. It increased to its current level only several minutes ago. I returned to my quarters immediately.”

“Well, I’m glad you did—uh—how was your shore leave?”

“Doctor?” Spock frowned.

“Shore leave, last shore leave. How was it? What did you do?”

“I… remained on the ship. I had experiments to tend to. Though, I do not see—”

“Interesting!” McCoy interrupted, keeping his tone light. "What kind of experiments? Biological, chemical, medical?”

“—Chemical. Doctor, I do not—“

“Did you have a team with you, or just yourself?”

“It was just myself. The rest of the team were taking their leave. I had no need of them, either. Are you—”

“Here, take a deep breath in, then out.”

McCoy watched the steady movement of Spock’s chest. McCoy was an old hat at getting patients distracted. It was much easier for them to calm down when they weren’t thinking about their pain.

“How are you feeling?” The Doctor asked. “Better?”

Spock frowned, but the color had mostly returned to his cheeks. “Indeed. An interesting technique, Doctor. Unorthodox.”

“Nonsense. Oldest trick in the book. Best way not to vomit is to quit thinking you need to. Now, you just wait a minute and I'll get you a hypo.”

McCoy found one in his quarters and returned, administering it in Spock’s upper arm.

“That should do it. Anything else I can do for you, Mr. Spock?” McCoy let a small smile toy at the edges of his lips.

“No, thank you, Doctor. Although, you may want this.” Spock bent and retrieved McCoy’s towel, which had apparently dropped, unnoticed, to the floor while McCoy was speaking.

The Doctor felt a crimson flush spread up his neck as Spock exited the bathroom.

_Damn Vulcan!_

“Now, wait just a minute, Spock!” McCoy called out after re-fastening his towel around his waist. “I’ve got a bone to pick with you.”

“Indeed?” Spock answered from behind the half-wall separating his bedroom area from the rest of his quarters. He reappeared holding his meditation pillow, eyebrow cocked.

“Why did you let me stand there with my dick out for a whole conversation? Have Vulcans no concept of propriety? A man wants to know when he’s nude, for Christ’s sake!”

“I attempted to alert you, Doctor, but you seemed very set on continuing. Now, if you will excuse me?” Spock placed his pillow near his meditation candle. “I believe you have said before you do not care for my meditation incense.”

McCoy felt his flush grow hotter. _Fuck it,_ he thought. _Might as well get it out and over with._

“I said nothing of the sort, and you know it. I know you remember what I did, and I know you hated it. You don’t need to pretend it never happened!” His pulse was racing and he felt his palms getting sweaty. He was digging himself into a hole, but let it never be said that Leonard McCoy was a dishonest man.

“I was unaware you recalled the incident, Doctor.” Spock folded his hands behind his back. “I assumed you were too intoxicated.”

McCoy set his jaw. Something inside him cracked and he felt his inhibitions fly away.

“Now, listen here, you green-blooded son of a bitch!” He roared. “I don’t care what you think; I _do not have_ a drinking problem! Okay?! Yes, I _drink_ and yes, I _enjoy_ it, but look around! I’m no different from Jim, or from Scotty! You’re not hanging on their every word, parsing it out to see if they’re _too drunk_ to be considered fit for duty, are you? No! Because you have some idiotic, _illogical_ fascination with me and my life! Now, will you _please_ leave me alone and let me take care of myself, as I’ve been doing for the past forty years?!” McCoy, adrenaline pumping through his bloodstream, stood, panting, and wondered whether he’d just ruined his Starfleet career.

Spock simply watched him, eyes dark. He stared at him for so long that McCoy was about to just turn around and leave, when he was caught off guard by Spock kneeling on his pillow and lighting his meditation candle.

_Did he seriously not care? Was he even listening to what I said?_ McCoy’s mind was racing.

“What are you trying to pull?” He hissed. 

“Doctor,” Spock finally replied, “if you are unwilling to accept assistance on this matter, then I cannot change that. It would be illogical for me to continue trying after you have so plainly dismissed my efforts.”

“How the hell are you helping me by spreading rumors that I'm an alcoholic?! You’re gonna get me kicked off the ship!” McCoy struggled to retain his concentration as the incense flooded the room. Feeling unsteady on his feet, he lowered himself to sit on the floor.

Spock fixed him with a steady gaze. “Do you truly believe I would tell anyone?”

As McCoy sat there, his anger dripping through his fingers like a moonbeam he’d tried to catch as a child, he wasn’t so sure. 

He’d been hiding behind annoyance, anger, and even, sometimes, hatred for so long, he didn’t really know where he stood with Spock, anymore. 

Maybe Spock was right. 

Maybe _he_ was the one who was hiding his emotions.

“Spock,” he began, voice soft. He didn’t know what to say. “I don’t know what to say.”

Spock gave him no reply. He seemed to be waiting for something from McCoy.

But what?

“Look, Spock, you probably already know what I’m going to say so it doesn’t even make much difference…”

_Oh, hell._

“I—I just wanted to say,” McCoy continued, faltering, “I’m sorry.” 

And just like that, every façade and wall and mask he had built up came shattering to the ground. 

He sat there, feeling his layers drip off like an overripe onion, and bled. 

_How long had he been lying to himself? How long had he denied this part of his soul?_

Then, all of a sudden, he realized he was crying.

It was less embarrassing to cry in front of Spock than it was to cry at all. McCoy scrubbed at his eyes with his forearm and turned his face—but he couldn’t bring himself to leave. As crazy as it was, he finally felt safe, felt himself again. 

_When had this all started?_

_The drinking specifically had began with Jocelyn. Was that the root of it all: insecurity, self-doubt, self-hatred?_

McCoy shivered in this newfound nakedness. 

“Doctor,” Spock murmured. “There is no need to apologize.”

McCoy huffed, “I know it’s _illogical_ but please just let me have this, it’s—“

“Doctor, what I meant to convey is that you have already been forgiven.”

McCoy’s gaze rose slowly to meet Spock’s own. 

“What do you mean?” McCoy whispered.

It was with all the relief his heart could feel that McCoy watched Spock tentatively raise his two fingers. He knew what he wanted to do—hell, he’d wanted to do it the first time, too, except his head had been far too up his ass to realize it.

Still, ever the idiot, he felt the need to be certain.

“Are you sure?” McCoy asked.

Spock frowned slightly. “Doctor, for a man of science, you seem determined to ignore all evidence you disagree with.”

“I just have to know for sure,” McCoy pleaded. “Please.”

“Very well. May I?” Spock moved his hand to hover just outside of cupping McCoy’s cheek.

McCoy nodded.

Surprisingly, to McCoy at least, it was an incredibly pleasant experience. Rather than the hectic lobbing of emotion that had happened before, this was slow, delving, purposeful, and intimate.

One moment, his thoughts were his own and he was just McCoy; and the next, he was SpockandMcCoy; after that, he wasn’t quite sure, but he knew _he_ was _them_.

His mind spun with double emotion. He was not only confused, insecure, and overwhelmed, but he was also _desperate_ and _pleading_ and just a tiny bit _hopeful_. Memories flashed before his eyes, overlaid with new feeling and new interpretations.

He saw himself moments ago, in the shower, so _kind_ and _knowledgable_ and _helpful_ as he talked Spock through his nausea.

He saw the _panic_ , the _disgust_ , and felt the horrific realization of what, exactly, Spock had been referring to when he asked whether it had been just blood.

Even before that, he saw himself shooting their uniform shirts in the cave, telling Spock the sacrifice was worth Spock not getting any more hurt (a bright flush of _wonder_ , _gratitude_ , and blooming _love_ ). He felt the _rejection_ and the _heartache_ as he foolishly ignored Spock’s confession.

Finally, in a glittering rain of _attraction_ and _hope_ and _marvel_ , he saw himself kissing Spock for the first time.

He reeled as Spock broke the contact, his head suddenly far too lonely.

_Did Spock really see him that way? Could_ anyone _really see him that way?_

“Do you believe me now, Doctor?” _Were his eyes always this anxious?_

Finally, _finally_ , McCoy gave the right answer. Taking Spock’s hand gently in his own, McCoy kissed him: and this time, he meant it.


	9. Chapter 9

McCoy was an early riser, had been since childhood. The rare times he’d been invited over to sleepovers, he was invariably the first one awake, cursed to watch the dust dance in sunbeams between childish mops of hair.

Jocelyn was the opposite. If she'd had her way, mornings would’ve begun at ten o’clock at the earliest, and the nights would extend far past the beginning of the next day. 

He used to watch her as she slept, reverent in the quiet hours before anyone else awoke. Her hair would pillow out beneath her head like a Rorschach, a different design every morning. In the later years of their marriage, those hours alone were the best part of his day. It was as if he had his wife back, when she was sleeping; and he could pretend they were both much younger and much happier and she would be unaware and beautiful and perfect there beside him. He almost felt that, if he simply watched her for long enough, his imaginings would be cast onto her and they would be good for each other again. It never worked, but he kept trying.

The first day after he’d left for Starfleet was jarring. He’d woken up alone for the first time in many years. Lying there, a singular small human in the vastness of space, with nobody nearby, he’d seriously considered going back. It took until he saw Jim at lunch for him to decide he was staying.

This morning, he woke up next to somebody. 

And that somebody was watching him.

FIN


End file.
